A.D. 1541.
The never-ending piracies of Algiers had for centuries made this city or state the object of the hatred of all Christian princes, and the dread of all Christian peoples. The opinion entertained by Europeans of the pirates of Algiers can be compared to nothing but that inculcated of the demons of another world. Among the most daring, ambitious, and successful of this race of marauders was Barbarossa: he aspired to something above the character of a “salt-water thief,” and intruded upon the lands as well as the vessels and subjects of his opposite neighbour, Charles I. of Spain, and V. of Germany.
The emperor was politic as well as brave; he watched for an opportunity of avenging himself with safety; and he thought he had found this when he learnt that the emperor of the corsairs was gone to Constantinople. A volume written upon the power of Barbarossa could not display it so eloquently as the circumstance of the monarch, possessed of more extensive territories in Europe than had been held by one man since the time of Charlemagne, being obliged to wait till this Cacus was absent from his den before he would venture to assail it. Charles prided himself upon being a brave knight, but this was a wide departure from the laws of chivalry, which commanded all who acknowledged them to send due notice to an enemy of an intended hostile attack.
This absence appeared to Charles a favourable opportunity for attempting the subjugation or destruction of Algiers. It was the autumn of 1541, the season of storms at sea and of diseases and plagues on the coast of Africa. Ambitious princes do not often benefit by the study of history; they think their own genius or their own power can overcome obstacles that have been fatal to others; otherwise Charles might have learnt what would be the issue of his enterprise by turning to the melancholy story of the death of Louis IX. of France. Neither did he want for prudent advice from living counsellors. The great seaman Admiral Doria, who was likewise an excellent general, and of approved valour, when consulted by the emperor on the subject, said: “Let me persuade you from this enterprise; for, par Dieu, if we go thither, we shall all perish.” But Charles was never easily turned aside from a favourite project by good advice, and he replied: “Twenty-two years of empire for me, and seventy-two years of life for you, ought to be sufficient to make us both die content.” A few days after this advice had been asked and refused, the emperor and his army embarked; and upon their landing in Africa, were immediately assailed by the diseases and subjected to the famine that had been predicted. Before they commenced the attack, an eloquent and politic gentleman was sent to the old eunuch Hasem, who commanded in the absence of Barbarossa, to endeavour to intimidate him, and, if that could not be effected, to corrupt him. But this trustworthy governor replied, that “it was very foolish to attempt to give advice to an enemy, but it would be still more foolish for the enemy to attend to that advice when it was given.” These dispositions reduced the emperor to the necessity of attacking the place in form. The defence of the Algerines was firm and vigorous; and their valour, assisted by frightful tempests, compelled the emperor to raise a siege in which his army was perishing with famine and misery. When he returned to Europe, Charles V. instantly sent Aretin a gold chain of the value of a hundred ducats, to engage him to be silent on the subject of his disaster. “This,” said Aretin, “is but a poor present for such an enormous piece of folly.” Aretin, we should inform our young readers, was an Italian writer, who by some bold satires directed against princes and other conspicuous characters, had elevated himself to the position of a kind of European censor. As in most such cases, the persons attacked really gave importance to satires which, if they had been left alone, like other bubbles, would have burst very innocuously. But the speculation answered: potentates vied with each other in throwing sops to this Cerberus, whose own life as a man, like, we fear, that of most other satirists, was as obnoxious to censure as any of those he unscrupulously attacked.